


To the End of Your Endurance (and Back Again)

by SunriseinSpace



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunriseinSpace/pseuds/SunriseinSpace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks it's time.</p>
<p>Biting his lip, he goes out to the garage and grabs a hammer, carries it in and sets it on the kitchen table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the End of Your Endurance (and Back Again)

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this](http://rachaelsrambles.tumblr.com/post/38139514378/sparrowwingsandfragilethings-sionnach-he)

He thinks it's time.

Biting his lip, he goes out to the garage and grabs a hammer, carries it in and sets it on the kitchen table. He pulls out two wineglasses, the ones with the Celtic knot etchings on them that Lydia gave them for their first anniversary. Digging around in the china cabinet, he pulls out two white taper candles and seats them in their candlesticks, preps the wicks and blows them out. He checks the time - five minutes to five.

Derek'll be home soon.

With a heavy sigh, Stiles scrubs a hand over his head, making a mess of his hair before fingercombing it back into place. There are Christmas carols playing, happy and hopeful, and they make his heart hurt so he turns off the radio. A glance at his watch tells him another minute has passed and if he wants to have this ready he better get moving. Dread pools in his stomach, but he's never let nerves get in his way, so he just squares his shoulders and walks into the living room to stand in front of the fireplace.

There, on the mantel in a place of prominence, stands a wooden box. It's stained dark to bring out the cherry wood's vibrance and painted with two letters and a date - their initials and the day they made their vows. For such a simple thing, the weight it seems to carry as Stiles reaches out to pull it off the mantelpiece makes him almost lose his grip.

For all their problems, he'd honestly never thought they'd have to do this.

Ten minutes later, the front door opens and Derek calls out a quiet greeting.

"In the kitchen," Stiles says, lighting the candles and hitting the switch to turn off the majority of the lights in the room.

The soft light in the room washes over Derek's face as he enters, gently revealing the half-guilty, half-sick realization in his expression.

"Has it really come to this?" he asks, hands flexing as he swallows nervously, still standing in the doorway. Stiles feels his own knuckles go white as he grips the back of a kitchen chair.

"I..." He clears his throat, blinking moisture from his eyes as he tries to figure out what to say. _He_ thinks they need to do this; there've been too many impatient words, too many fraught silences, too many awkward dinners recently, and after five years together, Stiles is suddenly unsure he recognizes the relationship they've been trying to build. "I think it could help."

"Stiles," Derek says, desperation in his voice. "If it's something I've done, I'll fix it, I promise." His eyes are begging Stiles, but Stiles can't read what they're asking.

"No, Derek, it's not--"

"It'll be okay, right, it's not that bad, we don't need this, just let me--"

"No, Derek, _listen_!" He has to raise his voice to cut through Derek's pleas and it kills him, but it proves his point. "We don't listen to each other anymore. Hell, we don't even _talk_ anymore. You--" Stiles makes a gesture of futility, like he can't even find the words. "We live in the same house. We sleep in the same bed. But there's no-- Derek, there's no spark anymore." And the words crack as he says them, the lines of his face feeling tight and fragile as he swallows harshly and stares at the man he's sure he _still loves_ but doesn't feel as close to anymore.

He can't read the expression on Derek's face.

"Are... Are you saying we're done?" Derek asks, jaw flexing and voice hoarse.

" _No_." The denial explodes out of Stiles's mouth and he finds himself around the table with his hands on Derek's face without knowledge of how he got there. "No, Derek, we made that box for a reason. Der-Derek," he ducks, fingertips pressing into Derek's cheekbones as he tries to get him to meet his eyes. Finally, through sooty lashes, Stiles manages to catch Derek's gaze. "Derek... Derek, we just have to remember, babe, that's why we did this. So that if we ever needed it, we'd have something to remind us."

Pale eyes drift over his face, studying the nuances, and Stiles tries to be as open as possible, thumbs rubbing soothingly over the cheekbones under them. Derek licks his lips and takes an open-mouthed breath, tasting whatever emotion is pouring off Stiles - desperation, sadness, anger, loneliness, hope, Stiles doesn't even know. There's a moment, a heartbeat, maybe more, where Stiles thinks he'll decline and there's honestly no telling where they'd go from there. But, no. Derek closes his eyes, tension melting from his shoulders, and nods.

"Okay," Stiles says. "Okay." He sweeps his thumbs once more over Derek's cheeks, feeling stubble prickle under his fingers, and presses a quick, light kiss to Derek's lips before pulling away.

Derek stays there, rooted to the floor, until Stiles offers him the hammer. "You wanna do the honors?"

With fingers that tremble just slightly, Derek takes the tool and steps up to where Stiles has situated the wooden box on the table. He traces their initials with an index finger and smooths his thumb over the date, before turning to Stiles with one last beseeching glance. Stiles gives him a small smile and moves to stand next to him.

Standing side-by-side just as they did the day it was closed, Derek pries up the nails and opens the box.

One hand soft at the small of Derek's back, Stiles leans over and pulls out two envelopes, a bottle of wine, and a double handful of river rocks and lays them out on the table. Rubbing gently at the arch of muscle under his hand, Stiles steps away and pulls out a chair, gesturing for Derek to take the one next to him. He squeezes Derek's hand, a quick reassuring touch, and reaches for the envelopes.

"Yours," he says, handing over the one with Derek's name in Stiles's chicken-scratch on the front. "Mine," he whispers, running a wistful finger over the graceful curves of his name.

"On the count of three?" Derek asks, finger tucked under the flap.

"Wait, let's open the wine," Stiles stops him. "Part of it, you know. Gotta do it right."

Derek nods and grabs the corkscrew Stiles had left in easy reach earlier. While he works at opening the bottle, Stiles scoops up the rocks, shuffling them around so they clack together as he reads the names written on them.

"I'd forgotten how much the pack's grown since we closed this," he muses, rubbing a thumb over the stone bearing Jackson's looping scrawl, pairing it side-by-side with Lydia's. He does the same with Allison and Scott's and tucks Melissa McCall's close to them. No more than fifteen stones total, Stiles counts, one for each person present at the ceremony. "Almost double?" he asks and Derek nods, pulling the cork free of the bottle with a small pop.

"If you count the ones that went with Lydia and Jackson last year, yeah, pretty close to double what it was then." He pours the wine into their glasses and hands over the one with the stylized 'S' curled into the etched knots.

"To..." Stiles holds up his glass, trying to come up with an appropriate toast, for luck or something.

"To us," Derek says, quiet, not quite meeting Stiles's eyes as he touches the rim of his glass against Stiles's.

"To us," Stiles repeats and takes a sip. It's sweet and the time spent in the box doesn't seem to have hurt it. He takes another sip and sets aside the glass, reaching for the letter. "On three?"

"One." Derek says it, eyes on Stiles's hands.

"Two." Why is Stiles's voice so hoarse? He glances at his wine but doesn't touch the glass.

"Three."

He slides his finger under the flap to open the envelope and pulls out the single sheet of paper. Ignoring the sounds of Derek doing the same, he unfold the page and picks up the wineglass again, taking a swallow to bolster his courage. There's nothing about this process that should be scary - they're just trying to save their relationship, their life together - but he finds his hands are shaking, he wants so badly for this to work.

_You mean more to me than guilt._ He reads, eyes blurring as he remembers where they'd been as people when they first got together all those years ago. _You mean more to me than revenge. More than my past mistakes._

_You saved me from myself, as stupid as that sounds, and you keep doing it every day. You're sharp and witty, half-cruel and all resourceful. You always do what needs to be done, even if I don't want to do it. You made us make this box and God knows if you're reading this, you've made us open it. And I love you for that more than anything - that you have always been and will always be willing to fight to keep me._

_Don't give up on me. No matter what hell we're going through right now, no matter what's happened to make you pull down this box,_ keep going. __

_Don't ever stop._

\--

It's not a quick fix. It's not suddenly perfect, now that they've remembered how much they mean to each other. But to have that in mind--

Now they have a goal, something to work toward together. Reasons to spend hours at the table after a meal, just talking, listening to each other. An excuse _for_ curling up on the couch in front of a movie, instead of one for getting out of it. It's still work, but it's easier now, remembering what it was they were working for.

They're still them, still together, and that means as much or more than it ever has.


End file.
